Misery Loves Company (And Hunger Does Too)
by DaSwampRat'sCherie
Summary: Nat had brought up the fact she could see the guilt eating away at him because he didn't talk and he didn't sleep and he didn't eat. The joke was on her because that was all pretty normal anyway. No pairings, swearing throughout


This came out a bit of a "five times he didn't, one time he did" format, although that was never the original intent; I just decided for logical character progression I'd need to toss in a few more scenes so the flow is funky (huge section followed by several little ones, which I'm not crazy about but oh well).

Warnings: Swearing throughout and vague references to past abuse and torture

Pairings: None/Gen

_Reviews_ are_ beyond loved_. I have found a dishearteningly small amount of Clint-centric stories and would love to have feedback on mine. Seeing as how not many write them, and therefore probably not many read them, I would adore to know what you lovely folks think on my characterization/writing/etc.

And I apologize for the ridiculously cheesy and sappy ending, lol

Disclaimer: Dude, if I owned them do you really think Hawkeye would have had such a small part in Avengers? No

* * *

><p>The gentle knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts.<p>

Honestly, he was surprised. There was only one person that would bother to come see him, and she never bothered with the formality of knocking.

Unless you counted knocking the door down flat on the ground.

Sighing, Clint slid off of his perch in the window sill; he really appreciated Stark's taste - the sill was more than large enough for him to comfortably plant his ass (_along_ _with a few pillows and blankets_) and stare out across the cityscape.

He opened the door a crack, one hand on the knife at his side just in case, and was surprised it wasn't Natasha standing there. It was Banner.

"Uh," he responded oh, so eloquently, taken off guard by the unexpected appearance of the doctor.

The guy flashed a smile at him and fidgeted loosely with his sleeve cuff.

"Can I help you?" He finally asked once it seemed certain the doctor was leaving him to do all the hard work of starting a goddamn conversation he probably didn't care to have in the first place.

"Dinner's ready, and we all thought perhaps you would like to join us."

Clint blinked. And stared. And blinked again.

"I - yeah, all right. Give me a sec," he shut the door before Banner could really respond properly which, yeah, was probably kinda rude but he figured that was what was expected of him. More importantly, it gave him the chance to shove a gun in the back of his waistband that he mused should have been there in the first place.

So he was paranoid.

Sue him.

The elevator would have likely been faster, but he took the stairs anyway.

It struck him as funny that only Tony fucking Stark would have carpeted back stairwells with extravagant golden embellishments and rubber plants on each landing. Which only reminded he had the _joy_ of dining with them so _yay._

Clint felt uncomfortable around the Dream-Team (except for Tasha, but she was _Tasha_ and didn't count). He just wasn't keen on bonding with a bunch of strangers; didn't see the appeal in making new friends _ever_, much less with these people.

The people he'd tried to kill only a weeks before.

The people that looked at him with a mix of wariness and pity, though it was the latter that pissed him off.

Nat had brought it up once. Brought up the fact she could see the guilt eating away at him because he didn't talk and he didn't _sleep_ and he didn't _eat_.

The joke was on her because that was all pretty normal anyway.

He never _liked _people. Had certainly never _trusted_ them and _talked_ to them. Sleep had always been elusive - even on the blessed occasion he didn't have nightmares; he was constantly wound so tight and on such high alert that he couldn't get a restful sleep without waking up at the slightest change in environment.

It came with the job.

The fact he ate so goddamned little was nothing new, had been that way as long as he could remember though he doubted anyone on the Geek Squad would buy that.

Phil knew.

Phil always knew.

Growing up, he didn't have much food to start with. What little food he did get was often thrown up after a particularly bad beating and _so not going there_. The circus was a bit better, but he counted it a luxury if he got two goddamn meals a day, dare he hope for three. And from there, he'd learned to be on the run - learned to be caught and captured and tortured and _starved, _and his stomach had adapted.

It had always been small, always been used to being empty and having to compensate for that; and thus he didn't get hungry easily and got full after only a few bites.

Honestly, his dietary habits had gotten to the point it was a wonder he was functioning but he wasn't _hungry_ so he didn't much care.

Then SHIELD came along and _Phil _came along and the guy had figured it out pretty quickly.

So he made sure that Clint always had ration bars and protein shakes and vitamin supplements and whatever else didn't have much mass but packed all the nutrients he'd need.

Over time, the two had become friends and they developed a system.

He could actually eat if he was eating _with someone_. Eating by himself left something to be desired, was something he had to do to live. Like taking a piss - no one really enjoys doing it, but, alas, people do. But when he was eating with someone, wasn't alone and could enjoy it in pleasant company, he found he could actually swallow more.

Any time he came back from a mission, Phil would take special care to eat with him. He'd even invited Clint to dinner every now and then to make sure things were still okay, though it's not like they ate every damn meal together.

Just enough to make it easier.

To make _eating_ easier.

Not even Nat had caught onto that particular idiosyncrasy of his, he figured. And why should she? Any time they ate together, they _ate together_ and he wasn't forced to do it alone and think about the food he was shoveling away; he could think about the company and her voice and the pleasure she took in the Chinese or the icecream or the _whatever_.

He'd managed to eat a little of that shawarma shit Stark had insisted on getting after the Manhattan thing, but he hadn't eaten since well before Loki and even he was getting a bit peckish by then.

It's not like he finished the whole thing.

But yeah, anyway, his not eating had nothing to do with dick-bag Loki and his mind control; but rather it had more to do with not having anyone to enjoy the process of eating with because Phil was - _was_.

Tasha tried to get him to eat, but when she did it sucked out his whole reason to eat because they were no longer enjoying a dish together but instead doing something _he had to do_.

And the rest of them made him uncomfortable to breathe around much less share food together, so _yes_, maybe he was eating even less than usual but it had very little at all to do with Loki's mind-fuckery.

(At least that's what he told himself.)

All too soon his musings and inner soul searching (or whatever the hell that whole spiel on his eating habits was because he it's not like he goddamn ponders it when he walks up the goddamn stairs) were brought to a halt when he found himself standing in front of the door that led from the stairwell to the hallway.

He heard Thor's raucous laughter even from where he was (though that may have been partly because the new hearing aids he'd gotten were simply superb and picked up everything), so he followed the god's voice until he found himself in the living room where they - except for Nat, dammit - were all lounging on various pieces of furniture and eating straight from take-out boxes.

Stark nodded his direction, and Thor boomed a delighted,

"The elusive archer joins us to feast! Are you aware of these chopstick devices? Most amusing!" As if to prove his point, he jabbed a piece of chicken and dangled it over his mouth before it slid off and landed on his tongue with a soft _plop_.

Which kinda sickened him a bit, but yet at the same time awoke a bit of his hunger. What the hell. His stomach was so fucking weird.

"C'mon, Katniss, grab some and get comfy," Stark gestured vaguely towards the impressive array of boxes on the coffee table.

Dammit, the only plushy chair within polite range was being occupied by Spangle Pants (how Phil had loved that guy), which meant he'd have to sit on a couch with the other yahoos and, yeah, really _not_ his idea of a relaxing meal setting.

As if on cue, Tasha slipped in as though she'd always been and stood not six inches away from him. He didn't acknowledge her presence and she didn't acknowledge his but that was okay because that's how it was.

They both headed over to the food-laden coffee table at the same time, and she wordlessly handed him a small thing of white rice and one of those packs of bamboo chopsticks. He didn't question it, didn't comment on it - just accepted it and waited for her to select her stuff.

Lo mein, of course.

She always chose lo mein and somehow that sliver of familiarity comforted him because lately everything was just so goddamn different.

Together, they plopped on the end of the couch. Well, she plopped.

He perched.

His ass on the back and his feet on the cushions so he was above everything and could _see_.

Nat sat so her side was casually brushing up against his shin, was already rolling her eyes at some idiotic remark Stark must have made.

Clint stared at his rice, all but waiting for a gaudy invitation (wherein the rice grains sprouted legs, arms, eyes and mouths and started to dance and sing "eat me") - but, yeah, that didn't happen. So he armed his fingers with the chopstick and picked up some clumpy white rice and raised it to his mouth like he was about to eat because _alert the press, he was actually hungry_.

His stomach growled in appreciation and he almost dumped the whole thing in his mouth, but as soon as the first grain touched his tongue he felt so violently ill it was a wonder he didn't vomit right there.

_Well, fuck. _

He hated that so much. It happened all the time, but that made it no less shitty for its regularity. Yet he sucked it up and swallowed, noticing Tasha surreptitiously watching him from the corner of her eye and the subsequent satisfied quirk of her lips when he accomplished that small feat.

This was a little better than her previous attempts - a lot less staring and nudging and "you gotta keep up your strength"; this time only a discreet watchfulness masked in joviality.

It seemed a little less of a chore and a little more of a pleasure with her subtly, but not really enough to make a dent.

They watched a movie and started to go their separate ways when they ended up watching another.

He hoped Nat didn't notice that the surface of his rice was barely skimmed off.

.

.

.

In the end, they'd won the battle.

It wasn't without its hitches, of course (that'd be too goddamn nice).

The info had been off and they weren't adequately prepared, but they weren't a team of superheroes for nothing so they adjusted and rolled with it.

Stark's suit had been damaged and he lost flight capabilities at the absolute wrong moment, plummeting over ten stories before Thor swooped in and caught him. He still couldn't fly, and only the left side of his suit would still fire, but he made do.

Nat had sprained her knee - _again_ - and had sustained enough cuts and bruises to worry him due to their sheer amount as opposed to their respective severity.

In addition to his own scrapes and bumps, Rogers had somehow managed to lose an entire sleeve; likely would have dislocated his shoulder (if not worse) had he not been a lab rat with enhanced everything.

Hulk was _Hulk_, so not really much of anything exciting happened to him. Except for the fact he was staying the jolly green giant for so long they had to pick him up separately and worried he wouldn't return Banner.

He did.

It just took a goddamn long while.

Though, okay, it really wasn't that long at all - Clint just liked it when he was nice enough to revert back to the humble scientist as soon as possible, so any length of time at all set him on edge.

And Clint - well never mind about Clint. He was fine, _thank you very much_ and _stop mother-henning_.

It had been pretty stressful, but it wasn't bad all things considered. They'd won and they'd lived and what really mattered after that?

That night, back at the tower after having already licked all their wounds and patched up in medical (or in private, because the doctors were all douche bag know-it-all's), they all crashed in the living room for dinner.

Spaghetti and salad and some other fancier shit.

Clint actually _sat_ on the couch, and managed not to feel sick until almost half a plateful.

.

.

.

"All right, Barton, you can come out and see what Uncle Tony has for you."

_Asshole_.

So maybe his crawling around and lounging in the vents hadn't gone as unnoticed as he'd hoped. Probably because of that damned computer JARVIS ratting him out.

Couldn't trust anyone - or anything - these days.

Still, Clint sighed heavily and gracefully dropped from his lookout point, straightening up before he'd even comfortably settled on the ground.

Stark just snorted. He almost earned himself a middle finger for that, but Clint decided to play nice.

"I made you something," the billionaire prompted when he realized he would have to be the one initiate conversation. Honestly, was he expecting any less?

"Oh yeah?"

"Hey, it does speak!" Came Stark's sarcastic drawl.

Yeah, he got the birdie for that one.

Rather than dignifying that with a verbal reply, Stark whipped around and produced a sleek bow from behind him.

Which - ...Damn, it was sexy.

Clint just about trembled with anticipation because just looking at it he could see certain calculations he hadn't thought of (_idiot, shouldn't have to have tin-man point it out to you_).

She just _gleamed_ in the lighting.

Stark thrust it towards him, and he barely stopped himself from taking it before he had the sense to ask,

"What do you want in return?"

Stark looked confused, which made him look confused, which made Stark look _more_ confused.

After a few beats of a "who-can-be-more-stupefied-than-the-other", Stark blankly went,

"What?"

"The bow," like he was talking to a mentally slow child. "What do you want for it?"

"Want - I don't _want _anything, dumbass."

Oh hey, he had officially won the contest because no way could Stark be more lost than him.

"Oh-kaay," he replied slowly, hesitantly reaching for it. It fit perfectly in his grip.

He almost kissed it right then and there.

Stark went over some basic mumbo jumbo - most of which he was intelligent enough and skilled enough (professional assassin archer, anyone?) to know without it being explained, but whatever. He didn't pay attention all that much anyway.

He could figure out what he didn't already know.

Clint went to the range not long after, and if he felt a bit more bonded to Stark after that than he would never admit it.

A few nights later he came to dinner without having to be invited, though he didn't eat much more than he had previously.

.

.

.

Life was actually pretty okay.

Obviously that meant it wouldn't last.

And it didn't.

The Avengers were sent out on a mission involving mutated lab experiments and crazed mad scientists and somehow in the struggle, Clint was captured.

Tortured for only a few hours before the dream-team found him and sliced the leather restraints and he got home (_huh, when did it become "home"?)_ but all during recovery everyone forced him to eat and he was back to the whole issue of it being a chore and something he could find no pleasure in.

It wasn't until a week or so later that he was finally treated as normal as he ever had been, but even then it'd lost its appeal.

Took three more weeks to get it back even a little.

.

.

.

Another mission - it always seemed to start with some goddamn mission - and his biggest secret came out.

It wasn't his deepest or his darkest, really wasn't that big of a deal except for it being his most notable weakness (of which he had many - especially on a team of souped up heroes).

Someone let loose with a massive EMP wave which, of course, knocked out his hearing aids - his spares too.

He'd made do until the end of the battle - everyone else's comms were dead too, so his not replying or not hearing his teammates in the first place wasn't unusual.

Until it was.

They all clambered into the jet, and Stark must have been saying something to because suddenly a hand was on his shoulder, and when he whipped around with a defensive _thwack_, Stark bit out,

"Geez, what's wrong with _you, _Robin Hood?"

"Nothing's fucking wrong with me," he snapped - probably a bit louder than he should have but he couldn't hear himself and even after years of practice he couldn't always gauge his volume properly. He ran his fingers through his hair and decided it was time to come clean, so shrugged and went,

"I'm deaf."

Stark blinked, and fluidly responded, "All deaf? There's a difference between all deaf and mostly deaf."

And just like that, the tension was gone with a simple _Princess Bride_ reference.

Even with his flaws known, no one judged him or thought any less of him.

When he accepted the second roll at dinner, he didn't even notice Natasha's beaming smile.

.

.

.

He didn't know how it happened.

It just..._happened_.

He noticed one day during lunch, taking a bite of the food and almost snorting it back out with laughter, that things seemed to hurt less. Came more naturally and didn't need to be forced.

Clint had learned to relax around the rest of them, learned to enjoy them, somehow learned to trust them.

And just like that, he didn't notice he was eating everything he needed to eat - the portions had grown increasingly nutritious and decreasingly massive, huh - and didn't see it as a chore.

Hell, he grew to look forward to it.

He was surrounded by his friends.

His _family_.


End file.
